[70—Invitation]

"Hey Heywood," A voice woke me from the strangest dream. 

In it, I was a boy, and had this toy...

"What is it?"

I was too tired to track.

"Phone call."  It was Chibani, shaking me lightly.

"Who is it? Can't it wait until daylight?"

The only time I'd used the phone here was for official business.

"It's from Missouri."

If it was from home, then something had happened.  Mother would never call in the middle of the night unless it was an emergency.

"All right," I shot back, grabbing my watch from its perch.  I followed him to the CQ tent, unable to see the face until we came inside.  It was 1:09. 

Lieutenant Nguyen was there, in a bathrobe and slippers.  She'd been very strange around me lately, like she didn't want to be alone with me.

"Telephone," I asked.

The Lieutenant pointed to it on the desk.  It was an old-fashioned rotary, and couldn't dial UTES numbers.  I wondered if it could receive calls from a UTES location, like from space. 

I picked up the receiver, dreading what it was that would have her calling me two time zones away at 11:00 in the evening.

"Hello?"

"Dani, this is Gina."

"Gina?  What's wrong?  Where are our parents?  Are they alright?"

"They're fine, Dani."

"Then why are you calling me instead of them?  Tell me what's wrong Gina, I can take it."

"Dani, I'm calling you because I need your help."

Uh-oh.  That didn't sound good.

"Is this about Sonjin?"

"Yes," she began, but before the next word came out, my brain was firing off scenarios at a prodigious rate.

Was she pregnant? Did Daddy greet Sonjin with a shotgun?  No, that would be Mother. 

At least I had the money saved up.  I could help her with that.

Did he get accepted into Julliard and now she's freaking out?

"...and they want us to dance there, Dani, and I'm afraid Mother won't let me.  I need your help."

"Wait, what?"

"I said I got a letter from a Commodore Cannesmore, with an 'S'.  She invited Sonjin and me to dance at Ophiuchus station, in orbit."

"What?"  Wow, the Old Lady did it—she called in a marker for me.  Sonjin and Gina, up there?  It would be incredible. 

"You should go, Gina.  Definitely."

"But Mom won't let me."

"What?  She said no?"

"I haven't asked her yet."

"Why not?"

"Because, I know she'll say no.  She's already suspicious about Sonjin; ain't  no way she's gonna let us go to outer space together."

"What about Daddy?"

"He's on a short leash, if you haven't noticed."

"He came through for me, when she got on me about taking drugs."

"You weren't taking drugs.  And he talked a good game, but in the end, he folded faster than Superman on laundry day."

"How do you know about that?"

"We live in the same house, Dani.  Or did."

That brought the gap right there, in my face.

"You need to point out to her that she believes in your dancing, and that this is a golden opportunity for the both of you.  Tell her if you don't take it, you might as well stop dancing."

"Dani!"

"No, I'm serious.  She'll geek.  She wants you to be a famous ballerina some day. 

"You need to convince her that the day just came, in a handwritten gilt envelope, if I don't miss my guess."

"Yes.  So this Commodore is classy?"

"The classiest.  Her name is Jane, and she wrote me an introduction to Noam Chomsky, who is the head of Linguistics at MIT."

"Wow.  So, what about Sonjin?"

"You couldn't possibly do this without him, you are partners.  This was an invitation to both of you?  I'm guessing again."

"Yes, Sonjin got one too.  But Mother already suspects we are having sex; this will set her off for sure.  I'll be lucky if she leaves me with so much as a foreskin."

"Gina!  I really didn't need to hear that.  Why can't you be that brash with Mother.  Tell her you need birth control."

"She'll faint."

"Yeah, and then she'll wake up.  She'll get it for you, you can bet, because the alternative is unthinkable."

"No, I mean she'll stroke out.  Dani, she'll never admit I am having sex, not if she can get by with it.  You're the perfect one in that way, too.  They know you'll never have sex."

"Gina, I think you underestimate our parents.  They are smart, educated and well-bred.  They love us and want what's best. 

"The problem is that they don't know what is best for us, which is what will make us happy.  Think about it, they were born in the Civil War; that may not be that many years ago, but the world has changed so much. 

"No doubt they're using mores that haven't changed since the 1920's.  They're trying to hold back the floodwaters of liberalism with a rake."

"What does this have to do with Sonjin and me?"

"Mother is smart, just misguided by the idea that she can force others to do her will.  She's read Romeo and Juliet, and she knows that the story can only play out so many ways.

"She doesn't want Shakespeare's ending, that's for sure.  If you tell her, or even hint broadly, that you have had sex, are having sex, or are contemplating having sex, then she'll take you to see the doctor and they'll put you on the pill."

"Why are you so sure, Dani?"

"Because, having a baby right now would ruin your life, and we all know that.  None of us want that.  We want you to dance, with Sonjin. 

"Mother will come around, when Sonjin has paid his dues; she did with Topher."

"But there's more at risk here.  You are her golden girl.  It's not even possible for you to have sex."

"I'm finding that such is not the case."

"What do you mean by that?  Dani?"

"Just that you have a narrow view of sex.  Being here, with my Odd-fellows, has opened my eyes to a lot."

"My view of sex is always with Sonjin.  Do you think it will work?"

"I think you should ask her about going, first.  Mary Jane will get you enough condoms if you need them for the trip.  But be warned, they don't like you taking personal stuff up there, for some reason.  I couldn't even take a toothbrush.

"My guess is you can buy them there.  There's a lot for sale on Level 93."

"Oh, my God, Dani.  Is this for real?"

"Yes, Gina, it is.  Commodore Cannesmore is a real person and I've met her.  She is the commanding officer of all forces in the ISA spacefleet."

"Oh, my God!"

"Calm down, it's not going away.  You will love zero-gee, Gina, you really will.  And you'll adore Jane, as I'm sure she will adore you.  She has a cushy pad and her twin brother is her chef.  She really pampered my taste buds while I was there.  Sell a kidney to go, if you have to—but not one of your own."

"No, they said if we can get ourselves to any spaceport, they would provide all accommodations."

"That's incredible.  Listen, you gotta talk to Mom about this; if she balks, call me up again, and hand her the phone.  I think I can convince her."

"Okay, thanks big bris."

"Stop calling me that."

"Thanks Dani.  This is so awesome."

"No problem  Listen, Gina, I gotta go.   We've been on almost ten minutes.  This must be costing a fortune.  I love you."

"Okay, Love you too.  You're the best sibling ever."

[69—Troop 420]

Troop 421 was scattered out of all over this valley, split into squads, split into teams.

My team was camped in a saddle between two hills.  We'd left the Lunchbox behind in favor of six-man hexagonal dome tents, one per team.  They were space age, with ripstop nylon and fiberglass poles.  It was light, only twenty-four pounds, just six pounds split four ways.

And it was dry.

We had been learning; there was a smoky green-brush fire downhill both ways, to keep the bugs at bay, and a dry fire under a poncho, using the neck hole for a chimney.

We used ponchos and tarps as we could, mostly scavenged from the motorpool or other places they were not likely to be missed. 

None of us could pass up a good length of rope, or even stout cord on a bet anymore.  It was just too useful. 

But we had fashioned our home out of contraband tarpulins and natural woodland materials.  Admittedly, it moved every day, but it was ours.

Chibani had even thought to bring our Peace Flag, and a collapsible pole.  Don't ask me where he found them.

It was breakfast time, and my runners were just coming back from Troop HQ.  We were not soloing yet and had to stay within three miles of the main camp.  We'd get to bivouac by team as soon as one of us qualified in navigation, a class that didn't come until about week nine.

Chantré slipped out of the woods as silent as a panther, and shoved a round of cheese and four eggs under my nose.

They were kinda small, tetchy things, but I didn't look any closer.  Cheese and scrambled eggs would go well on leftover corn mush, sliced and fried.

Last week I'd been afraid to eat Guinea fowl eggs.

But this time, I was ready.

I couldn't think of a way to do milk out here, other than bring a goat.  But coffee and sugar were as near and dear to me as dry socks.  I kept all of that in a plastic bag inside a rubber-lined duffel.

I hung mine under a waterproof tarp, which I always carried with me when we left camp, as well as two ponchos, two cord hammocks, a hatchet, my machete, plus two canteens, fire and first aid kits, and whatever rations I could swipe from the mess hall.

I made sure my people were just as ready and we each carried a little bit more so that we could share some comforts of civilization.

I decided it was worth risking my Grip, and just a few tapes, because it was so damned useful.  My sister had made me a padded satchel for it, for travel, and it turned out to be very good at keeping the elements out. 

We found that fit nicely into a standard issue medical satchel, with a rubber lining sewn in.  Another satchel with four motorcycle batteries and a speaker amplifier we bought at the Tandy store in Cieba provided us with power and a PA system.

Now if only we could figure out how to make ice.

It is amazing how fast people can adapt to new things.  Not just environments, but people and institutions.  The Odd-squad was a team now, me, Chibani, Chantré, and Keyla, and we seemed to get along, at least in the field.  We'd been getting out in it nearly every day now. 

I'd seen a training schedule that called from hiking weeks 3-4 but we started at the end of week two.  I'd never walked so much in my life.

The last time I was back in, the doctor looked us all over; he said I'd grown a half inch and gained seven pounds since Offutt.

I let Chibini cook, because he was the best at it and didn't seem to mind. 

I gave him the eggs and cheese and he gave us back tiny cheese omelets with wild onions and spring potatoes, along with a slice of fried porridge with cheese and a mug of sweet hot coffee.

"You are a Godsend," I told him and he smiled like a puppy dog.

I turned on some Steppenwolf and we all sat down to eat.

"Do you think it's gonna rain," I asked the team.

"It's Puerto Rico," Keyla said, trilling her R's like a compasina, "It always rains here."

"Good point.  Is it gonna rain on us, in the next four hours?"

She wolfed down her food like a wolf, and pulled a cigaratte from her pack.

"How much marching we doing today, do you think?"

"I don't know Keyla," I was talking with my mouth full.  I didn't eat like her.  Apparently all people who have fast food experience can eat infinitely fast. 

"Maybe ten miles.  I think the Lieutenant wants to take us over that ridge."  I pointed to another saddle, even higher than we were.  It looked very distant.

She lit up her cigarette.

"Maybe I can help relieve the tedium, if you know what I mean."

She reached her fist out to Chantré and they bumped them, doing some kind of funky handshake.

There was that smell again, the one like alfalfa.

"Excellent," I told her, "we can use anything that relieves the monotony."

She passed the cigarette to Chibini, who took a bit drag and grinned.

"She'll work, innit?"

He passed it to me.

"No thanks, you know I don't smoke."

Chantré plucked it adeptly from Chibani's sausage fingers and drew on it for a long second.  The cherry glowed and turned to ash. 

She passed it to the right and let some of the smoke out.  She closed her eyes and coughed a bit.

I realized it wasn't an ordinary pickle.

***

We were all high, I admit it.  But I swear I never took a drag, of the first one.

Sitting under the canvas rooftop was like being in a smoke lodge.  You didn't have to inhale to get messed up.

I have no idea if it was any good or not, but every little thing seemed to be hilarious to me. 

I'd never been around pot heads before, at least not to the best of my knowledge.  I've known people to do some pretty stupid things at parties—maybe they were stoned.

Within ten minutes, the joint had burnt down to a roach and we we're all too wasted to move.  At least I was.

Chibini was crashed, leaning against a tree, watching the girls snuggle out of the corner of his eye.  He had a grin that wouldn't quit.

Chantré was kicked back too, Keyla's head in her lap.  Her shirt was unbuttoned and her undershirt pulled out.  Keyla was kissing her tummy.

I tried to look away, but my eye followed Keyla's hand, roaming up to Chantré's chest. 

She was wearing the wrong Troop pin.  Instead of a blue anodized-aluminum 421, she had a green 420.

"What's with the numbers," I asked them, pointing to her left breast.

"What's with the Twenty Questions," Keyla asked, looking up at me.  She was not amused.

"Your Troop badge, it says 420.  Did you find someone from that Troop and trade?"

"No," Chantré said distractedly.  Keyla was pinching a nipple and trying to undo her pants.  "There is no Troop 420."

"Why?  There's a 419."

"Because," she answered over deep breaths, "the Peace Corps is run by prudes who insist on ruining anything fun."

"I don't understand."

Keyla stopped and sat up. 

"Girlfriend, there is no end of things you don't understand.  Where are you from, Oz?"

"That's not fair," Chantré chided her, "she's been pretty open minded."

"Has she," Keyla withdrew her hand from Chantré's nipple.  "So you like Orphan Annie here cock-blocking us?"

"She's just curious."

"Then let her read a fuckin' dictionary and let us get laid."

"I'm sorry," I apologized to both of them.  "I just wanted to know why there is no 420."

"We just had 420," Keyla said and glared at me.  "Maybe we should just break camp and get on the trail."

"What do you mean, 'just had 420'?"

"She means," Chibini supplied from the sidelines, "that we just got high.  It's police code, 420 means marijuana bust.  Don't you know anything?"

"I guess not."  I was feeling a bit the outcast now, the uncool one who can't do anything right.

"I'm sorry, guys.  Chibani, sit up before you fall over and roll down the hill."

"I'm fine," he said and collapsed into a heap.

"Let's have some more of this," Keyla said, pulling out another joint.

She lit it and passed it to me.

If I didn't take it, I'd forever by the annoying little sister.  If I did...what was the worst that could happen?

I hit it and passed it on.

Five minutes later, we were back to where we started, the girls playing kissy-face in the broad daylight, Chibani watching them with a goofy grin on his face, and me, sitting against a sapling, stoned out of my gourd and contemplating the meaning of string.

It didn't take long for it to progress beyond just kissing.  Keyla had Chantré's shirt off and her hand down her unbuttoned pants and before I knew it, Chibani was coming alive.

"Can I watch." he asked the girls

"You are watching," Chantré pointed out.  Keyla took off her own shirt and sat on Chantré's lap.  They reminded me of Mary Jane and the Red-head, what was her name?

But he was all excited.  "Can I just sit over here and do what comes naturally?"

"Only if it involves touching yourself and not me.  You touch me with that thing, I'll show you something you never saw before."

"What is that," he asked, a smile on his face.

"The roots."

That changed his tune.

"I'm gonna just sit here and watch."

"Good idea," Keyla said and pressed her chest into Chantré's face.

She was still wearing her bra, the kind that fastens in the front.  Chantré rubbed her face in the proffered cleavage and—it must have been with her lips because her hands were gripping Keyla's buttocks—unhooked it.

The brassiere fell away and Chantré started sucking on Keyla's nipples.

Chibani nearly choked, stiffling a whimper.  I looked over to see he'd undone his pants and was holding his erect manhood. 

I'd never seen one before.  He was uncircumcised and fairly big—at least he looked so to me.  I watched him stroke it until Keyla moaned again.

She was leaning back on her arms, and Chantré was kissing her way down her tummy.  She moved back until she was resting on her elbows.

Chantré shinnied out from under her and took of Keyla's pants.

They were amazing to watch, Keyla so pale and Chantré so dark as to look like a bronze statue. 

Chantré stopped at Keyla's pubis and looked up at me.  She smiled and raised an eyebrow.

I'm pretty sure I blushed vermillion and shook my head.

She moved down a bit at pressed her lips into Keyla's pubic hair.

Keyla moaned, and Chibani sang out in ecstasy.  I didn't dare look.

"Hey Dani," Chantré asked from her new vantage point.  "Do you know why lesbians never use drag as disguise?"

"No," I said automatically, lost in the moment and unsure why it was relevant.

"Because, we all know what each other look like with mustaches."

It took me a second to see it.  From my viewpoint, Keyla's pubic hair gave Chantré the perfect handlebar mustache.

[68—Diver Down]

'H'okay," the handsome, and hands-on, gentleman instructor said to his Sunday class in, if not broken, then severely cracked English.  "H'look ober joor geers otra ves...one more time."

We'd been allowed to pick, from what was available.  Since this was a captive water dive, and short, we were only wearing one tank.

Because the dive was so shallow, there was no danger of the bends, and it would leave us able to make a free water dive later.

There were five of us, three American women and a middle age Jewish man from the Bronx.  I was glad he was there, as Ricardo, the owner's son, and our instructor for the evening was a bit...extroverted in his affections.

I'd dropped a weight on his foot earlier.

We all had on our aqualungs, with the kind of breathing tube that looked like a radiator hose, and buoyancy vests.  I wore a spring-style wet suit and weight belt with six pounds of lead.  Besides that, I had my fins in my hand and my mask and snorkel on my forehead.  I felt like a pro.

We all looked each other over, inspecting every detail—the class work taught us what to look for, and why—and then Ricardo inspected us all. 

He came to our Bronx champion and pointed out a broken strap on his fin.

"What am I, fuckin' Charlie Tuna?  I got fins now?  They're flippahs."

"No, Fleeper is dolphin, joo have fins.  Now go get new one or feex it."

"Blow it out yo' ass," the Bronxite offered and went back inside.

"We will get in water now.  Use giant-stride entrance."

I put my fins on and walked up to the edge of the water, balancing just so.  I tucked my arms up, gathering my dangly bits close, and took one giant step.

The water came up to meet me way too fast, and I was suddenly in a column of air bubbles.  I was relieved to find that I could still breathe.

Never hold your breath while diving; it was one of the rules.

I folded my feet under me and sank to the bottom, drawing in through my mouth.  It was like moving through honey, compared to being in lower gravity.

I reacted in every way with my surroundings like I weighed less, but that was an illusion.  I still felt Earth normal gravity pulling at me. 

Another diver came in to my left and another to the right a few seconds later.  I could hear their every move; I could even hear them breathing.

This was all wrong.  It was nothing like what I'd felt in orbit.

I got up and balanced on the tips of my fins, working some air into my vest.  I had to get the balance just right, so that when I breathed in, I started to float, and when I exhaled, I sank.  It was fiddly, but finally, I managed.

I swam around, trying not to knock into the other divers.  The pool seemed awfully crowed with six of us in it.  We practiced swapping mouthpieces, and buddy breathing, plus assorted tricks, like donning and doffing your gear underwater.  They didn't want anyone to get stuck, out in the real ocean.

I suppose it should have been liberating; it clearly was for the other students, but I couldn't help feeling disappointed. 

After an hour of short dives in the pool, we showered and started getting up gear for the afternoon's free-water dive. 

I considered begging off until the next Sunday—it was not like I didn't have the time—but prudence, and possibly too much caffeine, drove me to continue.

I just didn't want to chew two bitter ends in the same day.

***

This was better.

I was twenty-eight feet deep, according to my depth gauge, and I didn't feel a bit of the pressure.  We were about a hundred yards offshore, exploring a shallow depression.  This was a shore dive; we'd graduate to a boat dive later and in the evening, a night dive, if I decided if it was worth it.

It was so unlike zero-gee.

Still, I could get used to it.  Ahead of me was a carpet of leafy weed, swaying in the current.  There were little worms, or something, swaying just the same, and picking little tidbits from the water.

And it was all so close.  Something about the water magnifies everything, so you can't trust your instincts.  You can see it clearly when you're wearing a mask. 

But it was also so blue.  Even as shallow as I was, the red had been sucked out of the world. 

I looked around.  It was mostly a green fog in the hole, but the ocean to the east of us was blue unlike I'd never seen before.  It looked like glass. 

Vague shapes moved in the distance, but you could see the closer fish, flitting in and out, diving for cover.  I saw one I swear had eyes in the back of its head.

I heard a dull metal clunk and looked around to see two of my classmates trying to catch a ride on a sea turtle. 

The instructor dragged his buddy, the most voluptuous girl in the class, over to them.  He proceeded to chide them in sign language, and then reached for his slate and pencil.

I realized I wasn't with my buddy.

Always dive with a buddy; that was another rule. 

My buddy was Judah, the Bronx tourist, and he was nowhere to be found.

I started to go after him, but thought what if I get lost in that muck? 

I decided to get the instructor's attention. 

I took my dive knife—carefully oriented so as not to stab myself in the kidney— and rapped the hilt on my tank.

Ricardo came over.

He made a few hands signs, but they only frustrated me.  He wrote on his slate:

¿A donde eres tu pendejo?

Where is my buddy?

I waggled my hands and shrugged. 

We surfaced, all of us, and inflated our BCDs so we could rest.  We had to be nearing the end of the dive; it was only supposed to be twelve minutes long.

"Where was he the last place you saw him," Ricardo asked in Spanish.

"Over there."  Out toward the open Ocean.

It had been my business to keep an eye on my buddy, and I'd failed.  He was gone.

We formed a line and started heading east, coming back to the surface every two minutes.  We'd been in very shallow waters, so we could continue this for a while without risking the bends.

We proceeded seaward, spreading out slowly, looking for disturbances in the silt below and bubbles when we were on the surface.

We were about a half mile out when I felt something bump me.  I was only in about seven feet of water, but it was too cloudy to see anything. 

Whatever was down there was stirring up the bottom.

There it was again; I'd stepped right on its back.  I saw bubbles and Ricardo surfaced.

"I keep feeling something bump me."

"Was it rough?  Like sandpaper?"

"Why?"

"Sharks have rough skin.  Dolphins are smooth.  I can protect you if you like."

"I think it was rough."

Great, now we were gonna get eaten by sharks.

There was somebody just outside of earshot, waving madly.  We swam out to them.  It was the two women from our class.  They were treading water over a column of air bubbles.

"He's down there," the blonde one said and then dove.

I followed, ready for shallow murk.  Instead the ground had dropped away and the water was beautifully clear for tens of yards.

We went down slowly, carefully avoiding the coral and eels on the cliffside of the drop-off.  We were sixty feet deep, about three atmospheres.

Jonah was here alright, swimming with the fishes and trying to feed them his mouthpiece.  They would have been a ridiculous fit—the fishes were manta rays.

He was giddy as a school kid, swimming in a spiraling column among the lazy rays; they were six to eight feet wide, and from below, where I was, he looked like an angel, backlit by the Sun, swimming in a sea of devil fishes.

We finally got him to surface.

"Jesus," Ricardo complained on the way back.  "I've never seen anyone get narcosis so shallow.  And we weren't out there long."

"My tanks are almost empty," I told him.  "I had to fill my pockets with rocks to keep me from floating off."

"That's because you are a newbie.  You huff air like it was free."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"I think so.  He hasn't been deep enough to worry about the bends.  I'm surprised he got narc'ed."

"Maybe that's not what it is.  He looks pretty happy to be alive.  Maybe he just had an epiphany."

"Yeah, maybe," he replied.  "I think I had one of those last week.  Don't eat the ovaries; they can kill you."

I didn't have the heart to continue when we got to shore, so I left before the boat came. 

I wasn't sure if it was for good or not.

***

I went back to the Lunchbox and typed a letter, to everyone, on my Grip.

Sunday, January 16, 1977

Dear Family,

I am writing to everyone as I am exhausted beyond my ability to describe and busier than the proverbial bee.

Week two of Camp Winsome was, if anything, hotter, nastier, and more tiresome than the first.  We started fire safety, which included a helicopter flight to the west side of the island to fight a forest fire.

We passed just a few miles south of Arecibo, but I didn't get to see the famous telescope.

They sure know how to wear you out here.  I'm so tired right now, I'm thinking of skipping my dive class, but if I get out there by noon, and don't drown because I'm so tired, I can get this out of the way. 

I've been taking SCUBA, it's mostly about pressure and Boyle's Law, and such, but today I get into the water, so wish me luck.

I'm starting to make friends in my squad, but almost nowhere else; we're just too busy with everything.  Besides firebuilding and fire fighting, they've been teaching us to live off the land, which right now involves gathering roots and fruit while not poisoning ourselves.

Next week we go out in the Boonies, hiking and camping, and they're going to teach us to fish.  By the end, they'll expect us to go out and live off the land for real.

I've gained four pounds since I've been here.  Most of the others have lost weight.

It looks like I'll be here until the end of March, if the bugs don't eat me first.

Love you all,

             Dani, who feels curiously small right now.

[67—Cieba]

Not all of us went to town, but all the fun ones did—except for July.

Camaraderie was made of this stuff, so I decided not to let the chance to bond with my squadmates go to waste.

"Time for a Spanish lesson."

"Like hell," Kwame protested.  He was our Nigerian Don Juan from this morning.

"Yeah, it's Sunday."

"Then I'm only gonna speak to you in Spanish.  How's that?"

"Not fair," Davy retorted sullenly.  Davy was a sloth, I swear.

"Why not?"

"Because," this was Geyla, sitting beside her little trip.  Reyla wasn't anywhere to be seen; I did mention it was only the fun ones.  "We don't know Spanish."

"Entonces..."

"You're just being mean," Keyla quipped from beside Geyla.

"Pienso que no."  Maybe I was being a bit mean, but they wouldn't learn otherwise.

"Ahora," I continued, "es la tiempo para cantar."

"What the hell are you saying," Davy grumbled.

"Hola Ernesto..." I sung out.

"Who's Ernesto?"

"Muy Bien," I told him and patted him on the arm.

"Hola Carolina," I continued, but Geyla stopped me again.

"Who are these people?  If you're gonna sing, sing to us, dammit."

"Claro," I agreed and started over. 

"Hola Chi-ban-i, Hola Mi-guel-it-o," I sang to two of the boys.

"te presento la cucaracha."

"Hey," Chantré piped up suddenly.  She was usually very quiet. "I know that song."

"Problamente," I answered her and continued singing.

"La cucaracha,

"La cucaracha,

"ya no puede caminar."

"What's it about, Dani," Chantré asked.

"Ah, so you are interested.  I thought you guys didn't want a Spanish lesson."

"Not today," Davy put in.  "But we need to learn."

"So you want to know Spanish but not learn it?  You know, we're heading into a Spanish-speaking town right now.  What better time to learn?"

"But we can't understand it."  It was Geyla again.  "What good does it do to hear it if you don't understand it?"

"How did your parents teach you what an English word meant when you were a little-bitty kid and didn't speak any other languages?"

"That's not the same thing," replied Davy.  Maybe they decided to gang up on me.  Good, they might stand a chance that way.

"Chantré, do you know all the words?"

"I know some.  I don't think it's like a regular song."

"That's right.  It's a corrido.  The lyrics are traditional, but there are many variants.  La Bamba is a corrido as well."

"I'd rather learn that one," Myki said from the back.  "Ritchie Valenz was hot!"

"We'll get to it.  Chantré, you sing what you know, and I'll translate.  How's that sound?"

There were a few grumbles, but a general air of assent.

"La cucaracha," Chantré began in an amazing voice.

"The Cockaroach," I translated into English. "La because cucaracha is female; it ends in an 'a'."

"La cucaracha,

"The Cockaroach."

"ya no puede caminar."

"Already he cannot go—no puede 'one cannot' caminar 'to go'."

"porque le falta,

"Because he is lacking."

"porque no tiene,

"Because one—he—does not have..."

"una pata para andar."

"A foot to walk upon."

"That's all I know," Chantré said.  She seemed embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention.

"That's okay," I told her.  "We can talk about what the words mean.  Thank you Chantré.  Everybody say thanks to Chantré."

They did and I pushed on.

"La Cucaracha was the name of Poncho Villa's chuck-wagon.  Possibly where we get the word 'Roach Coach', but I think that may be a more northerly invention. 

"The song came about during the Mexican Revolution, and has since become traditional.

"There are verses that reflect that:

"ya no puede caminar."

"porque le falta,

"porque no tiene,

"Marijuana que qeu mal. Or alternately Marijuana por fumar.

"The last lines were 'marijuana so-so bad' and 'marijuana to smoke."

My audience erupted with cheers.

***

"Where to," Geyla asked me as we watched the truck drive away in a cloud of dust.

We were on what passed as a highway between the local town of Cieba, and Rand AFB. 

"What do you want to do?  The town will give you a chance to practice your Spanish and try some local cuisine, but that could be good or bad.

"The base, on the other hand, is secure and we can show our ID's and eat in their chow halls.

"It's up to you, but I think we should go in a group, whatever we decide."

"I wanna know," Myki said, snapping flamboyantly over his head, "where there's beer and mens."

That reminded me I was still wearing a condom on my head.

"Well, be sure and use these things, you dig?"

"Uh-huh, little sista'.  I'm gonna par-tay."

It turned out that about half wanted to do each, and no one was willing to compromise.  In the end, both groups left me there on the road.

***

Instead of doing either, I wandered about aimlessly.  I went around the base and ended up near the ocean, just outside Eleanor Roosevelt Interplanetary Spaceport, which despite its impressive name, was a non-event.

There was a triangular pad, no fence, and nothing like the dome encampment of Offutt.  There were three rockets, all sitting idle with no one to attend them.

But there was another, much larger craft lying derelict along the shore.  It was enormous—it dwarfed the Mickey Mouse. 

It was lying half in the surf, nose pointed out to sea, a twisted burnt-out hulk.  The superstructure was demolished; the hull had been breached and I could only see the remains of four of the six engines.  The others were probably buried underneath.

There had clearly been an intense fire here. 

It reminded me of being up there, for such a short, frantic time.  And now, like the wreck of the U.S.S. Burk..something.—for that was all I could read of her name—I was stranded on the rock on which I was born. 

I wondered if I'd ever get to go back up.  Would that be my legacy? 

Here lies Dani Hey-something,

Touched the Heavens

and burned up on reentry?

I felt a hundred thousand miles from anywhere right then.

***

I knew better than to fall asleep on the beach, but I was exhausted and in a precarious state.  I woke up damp and cold sitting in the shade of the former giant. 

There was a crab sitting on my knee, brandishing its claw like a weapon.  Clearly I was an intruder in its territory, and it felt inclined to defend it.

I watched it scramble around, trying to find a way to get at my face, which must loom enormous in its view.

I lowered my knee and it started walking down my leg, then skittered out into the sunlight.

I got up and stretched, watching it amble towards the shore.  There were crabs running up and down the beach and some kind of sea bird hunting them.  They would land right near the shoreline where the crabs were plentiful and pick them off with their stiletto beaks. 

I wasn't sure, in the end, if mine made it to the sea or a bird got it.

The hot of the day was just breaking, maybe 2:30 by the sun, which hung a handspan above the mountains, south of west.  It'd be down by 5:00.

I got up and reoriented myself, then looked at my watch.  2:22. 

I headed back toward the road.

I found the two Spiner sisters walking toward the town.

"Did you wet yourself," Geyla asked me as I came abreast of them.

"No, I feel asleep on the beach.  I had a dream I was flying, in the water."

"Sounds like SCUBA diving."

"It was incredible; like low-gee.  Surely somebody teaches it here."

"In the Jewel of the Carrib?"  I was impressed with her trill.  "I can well imagine."

Cieba was a smallish town, probably a village before the Americans came in after the Eleven Years' War.  It retained its Old World flavor, but it was muted somehow, like the pink stone buildings or stucco villas were actually wallpaper.  What stood out was the modern world; the neon sign of the deli, a late-model sedan from the States. 

It boggled the mind.  There were few cars, but bicycles aplenty, I even once saw a burro, packed high with beans and being driven by a child no more than ten.

It was dirty too, the kind of dreck that builds up in the wake of expatriate Americans.  I saw cigarette packs and butts, broken soda and beer bottles, candy wrappers, and all manner of left-over western food, too much for the tourists to bother with.

Never once did I see a discarded tamale, or bowl of beans.

We found a scuba shop by its flag.  The red jack with a white bend was flying under a flag I knew about, but had never seen flown.  It was often called the Pacifist Flag, because it was white with blue bars, and a red canton of stars.

Americans, whether expatriate or tourist abroad, who flew this flag were rarely pawns of imperial capitalism.  We decided to drop in.

The shop was in a hollow, mostly obscured by a large sandbank and well shaded by a stand of coconut palms.  There were bats hanging from the eaves, among peppers and banana leaves.

It was five degree cooler in the courtyard.  The sand was wet, and a refreshing mist wafted from somewhere.

We went through a wall of wet muslin curtains and it was downright chilly.

Everything was rough about the place, the structure, the decor, the crude furniture, but not the merchandize.

The centerpiece featured a tall hexagonal fish tank, a column of light itself, on a black dais, which held the larger gear, but there were mirrored shelves above that, holding masks and flippers, and all matter of things I didn't know what they were for.  It sure was pretty.

"Can I help you," a swarthy young man asked in a voice upon which countless teenage fantasies have been built.  He was twenty-something, handsome, and well-groomed.  I saw Geyla's eyes glaze over.

"I sure hope so," she said, and slid in closer to him.

"We would like," I said in Spanish, grabbing her elbow and towing her away from the hunk, "to inquire about SCUBA lessons for me and my friend.

"And obedience training for my dog here."  I patted Geyla on the head.  "She gets so excited around strangers.  She always goes straight for the crotch when she's off her leash."

He brushed back his long, dark hair and looked at us all.

"Yeah, I could do that."

"When?"

"Anytime, bambita."

He seemed a bit too focused. 

"Excuse me," I said in English, "Can you tell me when classes are?"

"Classes are held every day," a soft voice said in Spanish from the doorway, "but you needn't attend every one."

It came from a short but voluptuous woman maybe forty years old.  She floated across the room, as if her feet never touched the ground.

"I would be happy to schedule."

"Thank you," I answered her in the same tongue.  "How long does it take?"

"Seven classes, but you may attend them at your convenience.  The first three classes are here, in the classroom, then we practice in the pool, before moving out into open water."

"How much does it cost?"

"Ninety dollars, US."

That seemed like a lot, but I wanted to do it.

"What about you two," I asked Geyla and Keyla, "do you want to learn to SCUBA dive?"

"How much," I asked the woman, "if we all took the same classes at the same time.  You wouldn't have to teach extra."

"There is always extra, but I will give you a discount.  Eighty apiece for two of you, seventy each for all three."

"She says seventy apiece if we all do it."

"I ain't got seventy bucks," Keyla said.

"And I got better things to do with the money I do have," Geyla added.

"What if I paid for it?"

I could spare two-hundred and ten dollars from my bank account.

"Does that include gear?  Can I do it all on Sundays?"

"Yes," the old woman assured me, "and yes.  You can do the whole course in two weekends, if you can stand it.   But it's a lot to take in and you need to be able to swim."

I've had my YWCA Swimming Cert since I was nine.

"I don't know," Keyla said, "This seems like a lot of work.  I was thinking about having fun instead."

"Yeah," Geyla cut in with the same pitch and timbre, "me too."

"Okay," I told them.  But I wasn't gonna just give up.  "Y'all go on ahead.  I'm gonna stay and check it out."

They left and I turned back to the woman.

"So it's three hours of class, and I can do it all in one Sunday.  Can I start next weekend?"

"You can start today," she said and held out her hand, "if you give me ninety dollars."